


A Sinner on the Side of the Saints

by sc010f



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Buffy 'verse fusion, Demons, F/M, M/M, Priests, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy the Vampire Slayer fusion; Bond is a demon hunting priest, broken and scarred sent from the Hellmouth to retirement in Hackney. What he finds there may lead him back to the light, or further into darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins with fairly graphic descriptions of violence, please be aware of this.

_Cleveland, Ohio_

Bond had three seconds to process the scene before the demon struck: before him, Vesper writhed, strapped to the stake, hands bound above her head, stripped to the waist. Smoke swirled around her. Above the sound of crackling flames and the rush of wind, Bond heard the bells of the church above them call for service. 

The blow, an invisible force, caught him at his midsection, and he went flying. His shoulder hit the wall with a shattering impact, and Bond felt the bones crunch. Pain flared white-hot.

The air reeked of sulfur and death. Bond's ribs screamed in protest as he rolled away from the wall of the sewers that ran beneath the great cathedral. His left arm hung limp, useless at his side; he could feel blood trickling down his back, into the waistband of his trousers. His collar threatened to choke him. 

Distantly, he heard bells and felt the rumble of the organ above him. 

The evening service. He was of an age to know the English, but it had always been the Latin that rang in his head. His Order wasn't very Vatican II; most of the demonic forces seemed to have missed _that_ memo.

Vespers. Of course. He shook his head. Irony, much? She'd come to him during the evening service, head covered, skirt modest, eyes dark and haunted. 

_"The demon killed my family. Sought us out. We're the last of our line. Please, help me."_

Bond pulled his knife, sacred and holy, forged with a relic of the True Cross in the center of the blade, from his boot and staggered to his feet. Water gushed, stale and warm from the sprinkler system. His shoulder screamed with pain. 

"Let her go. Take me instead," he cried. The pentagram surrounding them burst into bright flame as Vesper laughed. Not Vesper. Not her. The demon inside her; he had to believe that. The figure on the stake was not her. "Hang on, Vesper!"

"Oh, my, Father Bond, what a trade. You for her. Ever noble, ever just," she cackled.

"Let her go!"

They'd worked together, always after Vespers, and in the darkness of his office, after his colleagues had gone, either hunting or sleeping, he'd begun to fall.

From grace, under her spell.

_"I wouldn't have come to you if I weren't desperate, Father Bond. I'm not weak."_

_"I wouldn't dare suggest it."_

_"You'd better not. Or your very fine arse…"_

He'd been a fool. Seduced by her accent (a reminder of home), by her wit, touched by her beauty, by her surprising strength and how she struggled to hide her vulnerability.

"She's that important to you?" the demon asked. "Tell me, though, doesn't your precious mother church forbid you priests from the sins of the flesh? Oh, of course you flirt; take that collar off, and you, the man of the cloth, are more than willing to kneel in the dirt with the rest of us. But when it comes down to it, you're too good for it. Too pure to roll in the filth. Until now. Until me. You wanted me. You would have been willing to leave it all for me, to sacrifice your eternal and immortal soul for me, whore that I am.

"You know what they say: lie down with dogs…"

"You're not her!" Bond shouted. "I abjure you! Aduro ergo te, omnis immundíssime spíritus… "

Flame belched from the ground. 

"It'll take more than that," taunted the demon. "And even if you do manage to complete your little chant, what makes you so sure it'll work?"

This had been her plan. Summon the demon, bring it beneath the Cathedral, and together they'd slaughter it.

But now it possessed her, had bound her and stripped her.

Bond took a step forward. He _had_ to believe it. The thing on that stake couldn't be her.

"In nomine patri…"

Water turned to oil, and the flames of the pentagram burst higher.

"Et filii…" Bond felt his face begin to burn.

The demon began to laugh. Vesper, chained, writhed, her head twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood ran from her eyes.

"Et spirito sancti…"

"Oh, yes, James… Yes," the demon screamed. "I love it when you talk dirty. What promises did you make to me? That you'd sacrifice yourself for me."

"You're not her!"

"Oh, but how do you know?" the demon asked. "How do you know it wasn't me all along?"

_"Have you really counted the cost, James? You can't deny what we have."_

_"We have a partnership. A working… relationship." Bond couldn't look at her. If he did, if he took one step closer, he would smell her perfume, would touch her, would raise his hand to her throat, if he followed the swell of her breast… He moved, close enough to feel the heat from her body. She was so thin, but so strong. Her lips had been soft, pliant under his mouth; she'd allowed him to take so much with his kiss._

_"It's my understanding that working relationships don't involve the parties kissing," she shot back. Reality crashed down upon Bond again, a needed dousing of cold water._

_"It was a mistake."_

_"God, you're such a coward. Are you going to confess your lustful thoughts for me? Expose your sins to Mallory? Your Cardinal?"_

_"Vesper. This is my **life**. And yes, what sins I have lie heavy upon my soul. What's left of it. But I cannot walk away."_

_She was silent for a long time._

_"So you'd choose the Church over me, then?"_

_He'd never answered her. If he'd said "yes," it would have been a lie._

_Thou shalt not lie._

_Thou shalt not commit adultery._

_Thou shalt not kill._

Bond lunged, plunged the knife into her heart. 

The demon howled, screamed, and the world shook. The chains fell away, scoring Bond's cheek.

"James." Vesper's voice in his ear, her lips on his cheek as she sagged into his arms. Her flesh was still warm as he tugged the sheet entangled in her legs free to cover her as best he could. Blood seeped from below her left breast, around the knife buried there. He covered it with his shaking hand. 

"I would have," he whispered amid the fall of the warm, wet, stale water from the sprinklers. "I would have given it all up for you."

In the distance, he dimly heard the chime of the bells calling the faithful to their evening prayers.

* * *

Bond woke with a start, threw his good arm out, found flesh against his hand, and squeezed.

"Help! Hey, what the hell, Father!" There was a pained shout. _Human_. No threat. 

A human. A man. 

Around him, plastic and metal rattled – the loud vibration of an aircraft. 

Aircraft.

Not a threat.

Safe.

Bond lowered his arm. 

"I'm… I'm so sorry," he said, turning painfully to the seatmate he'd almost strangled in his sleep. "I… I have nightmares. I didn't…"

His seatmate rubbed his throat, glared at him, and began ringing the service call bell. Bond sagged against his headrest, his head pounding and his left arm aching. The cuts on his neck had been pulled open by his violent action. 

Flight attendants converged and Bond did his best to pacify the irate passenger (who received an in-flight upgrade) and the flight crew. 

He sighed and tried to stretch his legs beneath the cramped seat. The back of the aircraft stank of stale food, plastic, and the lavatory. Not exactly the luxury he'd become accustomed to – when one fought and hunted demons on a Hell Mouth, the mother Church did take care to reward her soldiers. Vows of poverty notwithstanding, Bond didn't actually _own_ anything that was his. The apartment, the clothes, the flights around the world – all of them were at the call of the Church, and when the Church called him to put his immortal soul in peril, the earthly rewards were sufficient compensation. 

He looked at his watch. Five hours until they landed.

Five hours until he was home. 

After Vesper died, Cardinal Mallory had declared him unfit, essentially dead to his order. He'd failed.

_"You became involved, Bond, and that's a danger. To you, to us. You've served us well, but to everything there must be an end," Mallory had said, his dark robes glowing like so many gems in his dimly lit office._

"Yes, Cardinal." Bond could barely stand. His ribs still hurt; the cuts and burns on his face and hands were still swollen and sore. His shoulder… he felt like Quasimodo, deformed.

"I'm sorry, James," Mallory said, gaze softening. “But it's time. Time for you to remember your true calling."

"This is my true calling," Bond protested.

"I'm sending you to London. There's a new parish priest just promoted in Hackney. He'll need an older priest to lend him some gravitas."

"I'm not even being sent to…"

"No, Bond. **You** are going to be his junior."

Home to his retirement, however improbable. Home to a dingy parish in Hackney where his vow of poverty actually meant poverty, meant administering the Sacraments to the old and young, meant hearing confessions, organizing fetes, baptizing, marrying and burying. 

Doing the work of the Church, no matter where she called him.

* * *

 _Hackney, London_

The cab pulled up outside of St Helen's in the rain. 

"Here we are, padre."

Bond fumbled for the fare, thanked the driver, and hauled his bag from the cab. Breathing deep, he felt the muck of wet London envelop him. It settled in his lungs, almost threatening to suffocate him. 

Home.

St Helen's was a dismal brick yellow building, dating from sometime post-World War II, squat and filthy with a car park out front. It crouched in the rain at the corner of King John's Road, next to a dingy white building from which the sounds of construction, the scream of saws, and the rattle of pneumatic nailers pounded. A sopping newspaper and crisp packet decorated the wall surrounding the car park. Distantly, Bond heard the rush of traffic on the high street.

He hefted his bag and hurried out of the rain. 

Inside, the church smelled of flowers and incense and dust. Bond stopped, surprised. Where outside had been dark and dingy, the inside of the church was suffused with light. Worn red carpeting, honey golden pews, red and green and purple felt tapestries – obviously made by the children of the parish – hung on the walls. The water in the font lapped quietly against his fingers as he genuflected.

It wasn't home.

Bond set his bag in the aisle and sat. Where the cathedral in Cleveland had been a grand temple of light, hard columns and patchworks of glorious stained glass, this was a warm, cozy, comforting space. His eyes grew heavy and he knelt, hoping to stave off the creeping heaviness of sleep. 

_In nomine patri…_ He slept.

When he woke, he could feel the warmth of another body against him. Bond registered dark cloth, a white collar.

Not a threat.

"I hope this isn't indicative of your attitudes towards every rite we perform," his pew mate remarked. "You must be Father Bond."

The priest was impossibly young. Irritation surged through Bond (never mind that he'd been caught _sleeping_ ), compounded by the ridiculous mop of hair, the stupid glasses, and the slender face, cheekbones made razor sharp by the dark clothing.

"I'm your mentor," the youth continued. "Call me Father Q. Everyone else does."

"You must be joking," muttered Bond.

* * *

"Seven and a half minutes. Bit short, wasn't it?" Q asked him.

"You had a clock on me?" Bond shrugged out of his vestments.

" _Careful_." Q caught the alb as it sailed to the floor. 

"You were timing me?" Bond demanded.

"I don't know how you did it in Cleveland…" Bond gritted his teeth; he was beginning to _hate_ that phrase. "But here at St Helen's, I think it would be better for all of us if you perhaps expanded your homilies a bit. Our parishioners come here for guidance, for instruction. Seven and a half minutes isn't exactly… thorough."

Bond glared at Q, who was primly hanging up the alb and the rest of the vestments.

"And your forty-five minute lecture on the miracle of the ax head that swam was _such_ a treat," he growled at Q's back. "I had to confiscate no fewer than three mobiles from the altar boys that day. One of the little shites was even trying to roll a spliff."

"A _what_?"

"A spliff. A joint. CANNABIS. During mass, Q. Or did you not notice?"

Q sniffed. Dismissively. Bond wondered how badly he'd be disciplined if he punched his senior. Humiliation aside at being passed over for the senior spot, put beneath a _boy_ who looked like he'd just succeeded from the youth choir, Bond did appreciate his job. He decided not to find out.

Of course, Bond hadn't expected to live long enough to experience life as a normal, garden variety priest, much less experience being sacked for assault after two weeks.

And life with Q, however officious he might be, wasn't _terrible_.

Bond also made a lot of mistakes during the first two weeks of saying mass. Q had proven, if not a patient teacher, one Bond could grudgingly respect, despite the ostentatious display of the large stopwatch every time Bond began his homilies. But Bond had begun to retaliate with a bit of _quid pro quo_ , and after scaring the holy hell out of the altar boys, mass, and life in general around St Helen's, ran a lot more smoothly.

Q never asked about his wounds – the shiny burn marks on his arms and face, the scarring on his chest and torso – but instead chided him about the length (or lack thereof) of his homilies and cheated outrageously when making the rubbish collection rota. 

Between the competition over homily length, the friendly wager over whether or not Alfie would trip over his own robes when lighting the candle, and volunteering to run in the parish 5k, there were pleasant enough distractions from the crushing _boredom_ of daily parish life. The runs in particular gave Bond an excuse to escape from the sparse priests’ quarters where he shared the flat behind the church with Q, to run through the streets of Hackney in the predawn gloom, rain or shine. It also gave him an excuse to escape the gasping fear that threatened to crush him every morning when he woke from his nightmares.

At least Q chose not to comment on the screams Bond knew he heard, the thumps in the night, Bond's hollow-eyed relationship with the mornings – but in exchange for his silence, Q offered up a constant presence, a practically encyclopedic knowledge of liturgy, daily ritual, and incessant pecking away on a computer.

And while Bond was willing to admit that he _wasn't_ exactly used to sharing a flat or a priesthood, Q's quiet acceptance of Bond's tendency to leave socks on the floor or sweat-soaked running shorts on the sink to dry reeked of martyrdom, and martyrdom made Bond edgy.

It was enough to drive Bond spare, if he hadn't been half-mad already, he thought.

"Are you coming?" Q asked him one morning as he staggered back into the flat from his run, sweat pouring off his body – London was baking under a blanket of midsummer heat – and gasping for water.

"Coming where?" Bond asked, stripping off his shorts and tossing them at the kitchen sink.

Q finished tying his shoes and wrinkled his nose. He stood, smoothing down his jacket and primly adjusting his collar.

"Visiting," he said. "You've been here three weeks. It's time you met the neighbors."

Bond limped to the shower, not as if it would cool him off. 

"Neighbors?" he asked over his shoulder.

Q drifted to the sink, picked up the running shorts between two slender fingers, and carried them, held out before him, to the bathroom. Bond leaned against the door and smirked.

Q held the shorts out, and Bond turned and stepped into the not-cooling spray of the shower.

"You've been running past them every morning," Q replied as the shorts sailed over the shower stall after him, smacking Bond in the face. "They're starting to ask questions."

"I don't _visit_ ," Bond growled. 

"You do now, Father Bond," Q replied, his voice infuriatingly calm. "I don't know what you did in Cleveland, but here at St Helen's, we visit."

Bond spluttered in the warm spray. He was sweating more, if that was even possible.

"Besides," Q said as Bond gave up and turned off the shower and began to grope for the towel. "My gran wants to meet you."

Bond left the shorts to mildew in the shower as vengeance.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hullo, Gran," Q said, bending down to kiss the large black woman on the cheek. Bond stared, hanging back in the doorway to the sitting room: cluttered with photographs, worn, comfortable looking chairs, sofas, and a tiny television (thankfully off). The room seemed full to bursting and would have been claustrophobic, were it not for the overwhelming sense of _safety_.

"Naughty boy," his gran countered, fetching him a clip round the ear. "Not bringing that good-looking Father James round sooner."

"Yes, Gran. Sorry, Gran." Q looked abashed, and Bond tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his smile. "Gran, this is Father James," Q said, motioning Bond towards them.

Bond dutifully bent to greet Q's gran, doing his damnedest not to let his confusion show. Q was, after all, whiter than white – the lad was pale, almost fragile. 

"Oh, come here, call me Nancy," Q's gran said, reaching out and tugging Bond close to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

"Nancy, then. It's good to meet you," Bond managed, straightening.

"Sit, have some tea," Nancy said. "Q, fetch the tea things. I want a nice long chat with Father James. He's looking like he's been struck by lightning. Don't look so shocked, I've seen you jogging in the morning – enjoying the view, too – now let's see if you're as nice as you look. Oh, and see if Camille's back yet. She and Rob went out hours ago. I tell you, that girl…"

Q grinned and made haste back into the recesses of the narrow house, brushing through the beaded curtain that hung in the doorway.

Nancy turned her attention back to Bond.

"Now tell me, Father, how do you plan to manage the parish fête this year? It's a hotbed of corruption, and of course you have to keep the kids from spray painting the booths the night before – they all think they're Banksy or some such, but of course they're really not very good." Nancy's voice was warm, her lilting accent soothing as Q returned from the kitchen with the tea things and two somewhat sulky teenagers – Camille and Rob, Bond assumed.

They all sat down to tea, and Bond was treated to stories of the parish, Nancy's views on the latest films, and Camille's hope that the concert at the parish fête would be 'wicked.'

Bond stopped himself from replying that wicked was not exactly what the parish wanted when it came to music. 

When Nancy finally allowed them to leave, releasing both Q and Bond from a bone-crushing hug, Bond noticed a strange red symbol carved into the doorpost. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Familiarity pricked at him, and despite the heat of the morning, he felt a chill. He hesitated in the doorway, running his fingers over it. It looked – he must be going insane in his dotage – _fresh_.

What the hell was it doing here? Nancy was a nice old lady – Q's gran, of all things. There was no way she could possibly be involved with something like… like Bond's business. 

_Not your business anymore, is it?_ Bond thought bitterly to himself. 

"Coming?" Q asked from the street

"Only just," Bond replied. If this meant what he thought it did… _Focus, Bond. You're not… it's not your calling, remember?_.

Q shrugged and began to walk down the street, only to be waylaid by a group of three very large and very tough looking men. Bond turned, only to see one of them put Q in a headlock while the others hooted, gathering round.

To think was to act: Bond hurled himself down the steps and launched himself over the small wall in front of the house as the first man released Q and shoved him into the second one. 

Before any of them could move, Bond swung. His fist connected with the man who was holding Q's jaw, and he released Q with a surprised grunt. Bond grabbed Q and shoved him out of the way. 

"Run," he hissed.

"Oi, Father!"

"Hey…"

Bond turned, ready to take on the other attackers, to disable or kill, to drag Q to safety – only to see the three men and Q standing stock still, staring at him in shock.

"Erm, Father, this is Harry, Don, and Peter 'Peanuts'," Q said quietly. "They're my brothers."

Oh. Wait, what?

"We was just saying hi," the largest one – Peanuts – said. "We knew Q was bringing you around to meet Nance, so we took off work to see you."

"Ah," Bond managed. "Erm… apologies. I was… unprepared to see Q being… greeted so… enthusiastically."

"Aw, it's alright, padre," Harry said, rubbing his jaw. "Though for a priest, you got quite a punch."

All three men, now that Bond was seeing straight, were wearing jackets and ties, sweating in the oppressive heat.

"They're your brothers?" Bond asked, feeling stupid.

"Yes," Q replied. "Although obviously not by blood."

"No," said Don. "None of us, except Harry and Camille, are biologically related. The rest of us, though... Nance just took us in at different times."

Bond managed to nod. It certainly explained why Q, weedy and pale, had called Nancy his gran.

Q grinned. 

"I think Father Bond's had enough excitement for one day," he said. "It's good to see you, Harry, Peanuts, Don. You're coming round for the fête next week?"

"Yeah, alright," said Harry. "Good to meet you, Father."

"I'm sorry about the…" Bond began.

"Nah, think nothing of it!"

"He had it coming, he did!"

Amid such raillery, Q and Bond set off down the street back to the church, Bond nursing his knuckles.

"Do they hurt?" Q asked. Bond looked over and Q was staring at him, sympathy in his gaze.

"No more so than usual," Bond said. "I'll put some ice on them when we get home."

"I should have warned you," Q said. 

"I've punched harder things," Bond replied. 

"Non-violence wasn't part of your vows?" Q asked lightly. 

Bond stopped, staring Q down.

"No," he said shortly. He started walking again, faster this time, hurrying back to the church.

* * *

"I suppose you have questions," Q said later that afternoon. "And I suppose I owe you an apology as well." They'd performed the midday mass and prayers and were sitting quietly in the flat. Q had looked up from his laptop and was studying Bond.

Bond was standing at the window, shoulders squared, watching the rain fall in the dingy car park. Finally, the weather had broken.

He grimaced. He found himself much preferring the rain; he'd hated it in Cleveland – that and the wretched snow – but here, here it seemed _right_.

"Nance is my foster mother," Q said, taking Bond's silence for consent. "She takes in all sorts of kids, as you've seen. I got caught spray painting the booths at the fête, actually – that's where that comment about Banksy came from – bit anachronistic, but there you go – and she swooped down on me. My foster parents at the time..." Q paused. "They weren't much for keeping an eye on me, at least not in the ways parents are supposed to."

Bond turned. Q's mouth was a thin line. He'd lowered his gaze, staring at the computer as if all the answers could be found in whatever it was he was looking at.

"So, Nancy, well… She took me in. Battled the system. Like she does with all her strays. Protected us. Me. Peanuts. Don. Robert. Camille.”

"Ah. Look, Q, you don't have to… I was surprised, is all."

"No, you should know. I grew up here. I wanted to come back after seminary, to give back to the people who had given so much for me. I know it probably seems _sentimental_ to you. We're such a small parish here, there's no money. The diocese wants to shut us down, actually. Which is why they let me come here. And why you're here, too. The merry band of misfit toys. What'd you do, anyway? Choirboys?"

"Q," Bond interrupted, crossing the room. "Anything you want to share with me is… _fine_. And you're definitely more capable of this whole shepherding lark than I am. Nancy's proud of you. And so are your brothers. And no. Not choirboys. I may have… exposed some things that made certain… entities unhappy with me. After the last meeting, it was decided that I should remove myself from the parish. Make everyone happier."

That was safe enough. The less Q knew about his _actual_ duties, the better. Bond slapped him on the shoulder, sending him nearly crashing into his laptop screen. Q glared at him. 

"Careful. Mrs Aldis's daughter isn't likely to give us another one of these," Q snapped, trying to steady himself.

"Competence isn't everything, you know – youth is, after all, no guarantee of innovation. And you're doing the oldest act of kindness in the world – honor thy father and mother, right?"

Q rolled his eyes. 

"Don't you have tea to make, Bond?" he asked.

* * *

"You're not going, and that's that," Q declared later that same evening.

"Now look, you pup. I will not be…" Bond argued.

"Not after what you said to poor Mr Murgatroyd last Sunday. You are _banned_ , Bond, from the parish council until you apologize, and that's my final word as your senior priest."

"He had it coming; the man's a menace," Bond grumbled. Q's lips twitched. Bond caught himself staring.

"Agreed, but he's also the council president, and you can't go around calling him a washed out old fu—"

"Why Q, such _language_ ," Bond interrupted with a smirk. "I didn't know you had it in you!"

Q rolled his eyes. "I don't know what you used to get up to in…"

"DON'T say it."

"Cleveland," Q finished. "But here, well. You'd be surprised as to what I've got in me." Q punctuated his rebuttal with a slam of the door to the flat, and Bond was left alone to goggle at the space that had held his senior priest. 

It was, admittedly, _fun_ to see how quickly he could get up Q's nose, mostly because he was the most agile verbal sparring partner that Bond had had in a long time. They'd managed to find exactly where the other's irritants lay; making Q's cheekbones flush and his eyes flash with irritation was satisfying. And oh, Bond had missed that. He'd not had that much fun since…

Well, since Vesper. 

He closed his eyes against the rush of emotion, the unwarranted memory of the softness of her lips, the heat of her skin against his hand. But now…

_Focus, Bond._

_Forgive me, father, for I have sinned…_

Bond sat for what felt like a long time, struggling to contain the grief, shame, and fury that rose in his throat like so much bile. As he did so, he found himself staring at the bookshelves. The shelves were curved under the weight of so many book – concordances, orders of mass, histories, bibles, and some cheap paperback detective novels that had been donated over the years. But at the bottom of the shelves, at backbreaking level, there was a selection of books, old and dusty. Bond had noticed them when he'd first moved in, asked Q about them, but Q had shrugged, saying they'd always been there as far as he knew, and he'd not had cause look at them, assuming they were older missals or reference books. 

Bond checked the clock; Q would be gone for hours. Along with being terminally obnoxious, Mr Murgatroyd was also a perpetual windbag. Quietly, he rose and made for the shelves. 

The book was, unlike the rest of them in that section, not coated in dust, as if it had been removed recently. Bond's skin crawled: the book itself seemed to radiate menace. Bond wasn't particularly sensitive to magics, but his training had been very, very thorough, and this… this was very, very not good.

The book was a compendium of Vodoun magic. Fighting back his initial revulsion, the prickling of his palms, Bond thumbed through it, looking yet not looking, letting his eyes slide over the illustrations, seeing yet not, as he'd been taught – avoiding what influences he could – even _reading_ spells casually sometimes could cause hexing – when he stopped at a page that held a familiar symbol – the one that matched the symbol carved onto Nancy's doorpost: a protection symbol. But protection from what?

Carefully, Bond put the book back. This wasn't his area of expertise, but he definitely knew magic when he saw it, and what was Q doing with it? And why did _Q_ – harmless, officious, nitpicky, lovely Q – have a book about it, especially a well thumbed book? Of course, Q relying on a book for information instead of his perpetually on laptop would have been strange enough to begin with, but this – this was bad news. Now Q _and_ his grandmother were involved, and the magics of a book like this... Bond had seen enough damage done when the inexperienced (and even the experienced) had been caught out by Vodoun. 

His training screamed at him to hunt down the threat and eliminate it, but this was Q and his grandmother. They'd done so much good for the community – protected them, kept them whole and safe, it seemed – the parish seemed to be thriving under Q's official guidance and Nancy's unofficial care. 

But…

* * *

Q returned hours later – more than Bond had expected, which of course put his hackles up even more. He didn't speak to Bond; he merely made a cup of tea and sat, staring at his laptop, unmoving. 

Well, _something_ had happened. Bond wondered if he'd finally offed Murgatroyd. 

Doubtful.

"Meeting go well, did it?" he asked.

Q did not reply. 

"Murgatroyd talk your ear off again? The man's dangerously pompous. If I could…"

Q wasn't listening. Bond took a closer look; Q had his hands clasped in his lap as if he were trying to stop them from shaking. 

"Q? Q, what's wrong?"

Q looked, if possible, even paler than he usually did. 

"If you're going to be sick," Bond warned him, "please don't do it on your laptop. You'll hate yourself in the morning. And probably blame me." Q shook his head, his lips pressed together in a thin, bloodless line. 

"Not going to be sick," he croaked.

"Then what's the matter, man? Tell me!" Bond rose from his chair, crossed the room. "Q? What's wrong with your hands?"

Q's hands, pale with long delicate fingers, were still shaking and cold in Bond's grasp. 

"What happened?" he asked. There was blood in the cuticle beds. Q's wrists, white against the black of his shirt, were speckled with blood as well. "Q, did someone hurt you?"

"No. Not me. Not me," Q whispered. 

"Then what…"

Q took a long, shaking breath. If Bond didn't think he knew better, he'd swear Q was _afraid_ of something.

"Somebody's dead. Bond." Q took a deep breath, steadied himself. "Tell me. What you know about… the occ– demons?" Q finally continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this wouldn't have been possible without Bluey, Maz, Libby, and PJ. Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For hedwigdordt who waited so long for this!

Q's hands had not stopped shaking. They were cold. Bond leaned forward and grasped them.

"It was Mrs Grasspole. She was supposed to be at the council meeting, but she never came. I went round afterwards and found…" He trailed off, biting his lip until it was bloodless. The knot that had formed in his chest when Bond had found the book tightened. 

"The door was open. I found Gavin. Her son. He was on the stairs. She was… everywhere."

"Q…" 

Q sank to his knees with a strangled sob and Bond followed him, his arms wrapping around Q's shaking form. 

"She was everywhere. There was blood… so much blood, mother of God – she was naked – stripped of her clothes, torn apart." Q gasped for breath, a sob then another, then another torn from his body. Bond pulled him to his chest and held him for a moment, offering the protection of his own body. Q's curls smelled of smoke and sulfur, as his trembling hands clung to Bond's shirt. 

There was blood underneath his fingernails.

Q was cold, but his breath against Bond's neck was warm. The desire to protect raged against suspicion and need. Bond's hand moved to the lad's neck and cupped his cheek, his thumb tracing against his cheekbone. In the golden light of the reading lamp, Q was… beautiful. 

"I have you," Bond murmured. "It's okay, you're safe. I have you. It's okay." There was a darker stain on Q's dark sleeve. Bond closed his eyes against the sight, breathing in the scent of Q's shampoo: plain, utilitarian. He felt the soft caress of Q's hair against his cheek – until minutes ago, an action that would have induced a rush of guilt and sensation. Now, the urge to comfort, to protect surged in him, tempered by unsettling suspicion of knowledge. 

Q's sobs quieted. 

"Why did you ask about demons?" asked Bond softly.

Q took a shuddering breath and continued as if he hadn't heard him. 

"I… don't know… We can't call the police. It was a demon, James. I know it."

Bond straightened and gently tipped Q's chin up to look into his face. 

"How did you know it was a demon?" he asked again.

Q drew his chin away. 

"I knew, Bond. Please… I just knew."

" _How?_ Q, what are you keeping from me?" The cold snake of suspicion and fury unwound in Bond's gut.

"Please, James…"

"I have to go," Bond said. "I have to see. Tell me, how did you know?"

Q's head snapped up. Suspicion flared bright in his eyes.

"Why?" he asked. He was still pale, his hands, still nested in Bond's, shaking yet. "Why do you have to see, James? We're powerless against this… this thing. This… this is beyond us."

Bond held his gaze. 

"Why would you say that?" he asked softly.

Q blinked. Drew breath.

"James, there are just some things… that I know. What we do here – it's all ritual. We don't control the powers of good, of evil. We chose the light, but the darkness… that's not our provenance. When darkness comes, James…"

"No."

Q narrowed his eyes. 

"James, you don't understand. This is…."

"I said, 'no,' Q. You don't do this. I do."

Bond stood, disengaging from Q's grasp; he felt bereft – he would _not_ let himself feel bereft. 

"I'm going," he said. "And when I get back, Q, you are going to tell me _everything_ you know. Do you hear me?"

Q stood, his jaw set. His hands were still trembling as he knitted his fingers together. Bond could see the tears shining in his eyes, he could smell the fear. 

"We go together, Father Bond," Q said quietly. His voice didn't shake, and on top of the suspicion, adrenaline, and cold rage that settled over Bond like a blanket, there was _pride_. Q might be a traitor, he and his gran leading him like a lamb to slaughter, in league with darkness, but whatever he had seen had terrified him, and he was willing to return. The lad was brave; Bond would grant him that.

"We go together," Bond agreed.

* * *

The body, once Mrs Grasspole, was mangled and, in some parts, even shredded. Bond crossed himself automatically; the sight was painful and all too familiar. Rage rose in his throat, while at the same time his heart beat faster and his breath quickened. A good woman had been ripped from her life, from her children, from her home, all in the cause of some nameless evil. The door was broken, hanging from its hinges. Mrs Grasspole had fought back, had eventually been backed into her sitting room, had been thrown through her television set and dragged about the room – an adult-sized ragdoll. 

As the fury overwhelmed him, the world shifted, seemed to slot into place. The burn marks on the wall, the bloodstains on the ceiling – all of it beckoned to him like some demented lover. _This_ , this was what he had been called to the Church to do. They had sought to turn him away – they had put him out to pasture, forced him into retirement, his seniors – but how little did they know of him. 

Except. Perhaps not.

Perhaps _this_ was the moment. This would be his downfall. 

Behind him, he could feel Q stiffen and cross himself as well. A flare of conflict: suspicion and pride surged through Bond. Who _was_ this boy?

Mrs Grasspole's son, Gavin, was crouched on the staircase opposite the door,  
arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth in Q's gran's unyielding embrace. She was whispering to him.

"Mother of God," Q swore. His gran snapped her head up and glared at him. 

"Gavin found him?" Bond asked.

"Yes," Nancy replied. "Poor child. I pray God this does not mean…"

"Did he see anything?" 

"No, he says he did not. He wasn't home. He says he was…"

"I'll need to talk to you," Bond cut her off. "And you. Both. Now. Get Gavin out of here, to a neighbor – with us, if you must."

"James," Q said. 

"Now."

"But…"

"Your house, Nancy. You two have done enough here, don't you think?" Bond took two steps towards her. Ash crunched beneath his shoes. 

"Now just wait a minute," Nancy interrupted, standing. "What makes you think…"

"You belong on sacred ground, and your house, Nancy, is marked. Those symbols? Protection. Did you think I wouldn't recognize them? We go now. Unless there's some reason why you would prefer not to be _protected_?"

"Father Bond, stop!" Nancy shouted.

At her leg, Gavin whimpered.

"Explain to me exactly what the _fuck_ is going on here," Bond demanded, taking another step.

Q thrust himself between Bond and his gran. Instinctively, Bond grabbed for him – hand to shoulder, hand to wrist – and spun him. Would have thrown him to the ground, but for Q's cry.

"James, what… stop that! James you're hurting me!" Q cried. Bond snarled and released him. Q staggered back against the opposite wall. The impact of his body jarred the sitting room door loose, and it fell. 

"You're leaving," said Bond. "Take the boys to your house, Nancy. _I_ will finish here." 

Q looked as if he were going to argue but Nancy stepped forward, her gaze locked with Bond.

"We will be there when you finish here, _Father_ ," she said.

* * *

The walk to Nancy's house cooled Bond's anger. Not enough to take his edge off, but enough not to give in to the urge to hurt, to maim, to kill whatever it was that had invaded _his_ parish. He had done what he could for Mrs Grasspole, had called his former bishop – been put in touch with the authorities in London, had turned the matter over to them and retreated from the scene. 

The man in charge – an old friend, it turned out – had been sympathetic, offering what information he could and grasping Bond's hand as he left. 

"It's good to see you back, James," he'd said. 

"I'm not back, Alec," Bond had retorted. "The cardinals have seen to that, haven't they? It's just this. Just this one time."

"Of course," replied Alec, clearly disbelieving him.

* * *

He stood in Nancy's crowded sitting room while Q bustled with the tea things and Gavin sat, wrapped in a ball on the sofa. 

"I am giving him chamomile," Nancy said. "And herbs. Harmless. They will help him sleep."

Bond didn't respond, merely glared at her.

"So I'm a witch, Father Bond," she said as Gavin sipped his drink. "What of it? You men think that witches cannot be good, that we all consort with the devil. You men think that we strip ourselves bare by the light of the moon and conduct profane rites. 

"Q, my boys, all of them – they know better. They know that your God offers mercy, but from a long way away. Q, he tries to tell me that his God is merciful, all powerful, protects us. He's right – but he's not always completely right. You know that, don't you Father?

"My Gods, they are here, they help us every day; they protect us. So I honor them. They are the Gods of my family, the spirits of the ones that come before. I honor them, and I honor your God. Q's God. I teach my children to honor the Gods that protect us, that provide for us – the ones here, with us, the spirits of my family and the God that your Bible tells us about."

"The symbols on Nancy's door," Q said quietly. He slipped through the doorway, the beaded curtain clicking behind him, and sat on the sofa beside Gavin, whose eyelids were growing heavy. "They protect her. They were supposed to protect the neighborhood."

"Q, have you…"

"Forgotten the First Commandment? Hardly, Father Bond. I serve God. I serve him with my gran. I protect the people of the parish's souls and feed them. My gran's Gods protect the people, too. But perhaps there are more things in heaven and earth?"

"Than are dreamt of?" Bond shook his head. "Q, I've seen stranger things than you could ever dream of. I know what I saw tonight. But what I need to know – and I want the truth from you, or so help me…"

"We're on God's side, James," Nancy said. "Q and I. We are on our Gods' side."

Bond drew a breath. Years of fighting, years of interrogation, years of prayer and war had taught him well. Every word Nancy spoke had the unalterable ring of truth.

Vesper had been a witch, he remembered. Her witchcraft and his pride, her seduction of him, and his skill. He'd let her die, allowed himself to be seduced by her darkness, and then had left her. And at the end, hadn't she been just as innocent as Gavin? As innocent as he wanted to believe Q was? 

Vesper had believed she was on the side of God as well. But not even God had been able to spare her. Because Bond had let it happen. Had let her die.

He was not going to allow it again.

"The evil has come," Nancy said. 

"So I fight it," Bond replied. "You knew when I came here. You knew who I was."

Nancy nodded. 

"We had heard of Vesper. News travels. We know what you are. Our help in times of trouble, and a sign that the evil was returning. This parish has always been a place of refuge in times of struggle. A stronghold of saints."

Bond's mouth twisted. 

"Not a saint, Nancy."

"Perhaps not, but we are all sinners," Q said softly. "And together…"

"No, Q," Bond said. "There is no _together_ here."

* * *

Back at the flat, Q was silent. It was past midnight, and Bond's body screamed for rest. 

_I'm getting old. Will this be the last time I fight this fight?_

"Gavin will be safe with Nancy," he said, pulling off his jumper. 

Q nodded, leaning against the doorframe. Limned with the light from the bathroom, he looked all the more ethereal. 

"Are you afraid?" Bond asked him. 

Q looked up and smiled. 

"Not yet," he said. "Merely thinking."

Bond grunted and turned to sit and deal with his shoes. 

"I'm not in the habit of trusting witches and their kind, Q," he said. "We can tackle that discussion tomorrow after prayers, but for your own safety, try not to sneak up on me, or I will not be responsible for my actions. The results would be… unpleasant."

"Of course, James," Q replied. 

"Did you want anything else?" Bond asked. Q had not moved from the doorway.

"No… no. Nothing. Thanks. Sleep well, James."

"You too, Q."

Q turned away and Bond stripped himself of his trousers and shirt. In his vest and pants, he lay on the bed, trying to stop the hurricane of suspicion, fear, anger, and doubt whirling in his mind. Sleep was an impossibility, he knew, but prayer… he tried to move, to fall to the edge of the bed, to kneel, but his body refused. 

Shaking his head, he settled back onto the pillow, resigned to another night of staring at the ceiling, hoping for peace. 

Two hours later, he was jerked to awareness by the gentle depression of the mattress and warm breath at his side. 

Survival instinct warred with exhaustion, and he paused ( _fatal, you're getting old, soft, ineffective_ ) long enough to recognize the mop of dark hair and the thin frame curled next to him. 

"I'm sorry." Q's voice sounded thin, reedy, frightened. "I couldn't sleep, and I decided it was worth the risk of waking you. James," he said, turning his head. James couldn't see his expression in the dark, but he could feel Q's hand, shaking as it sought his own. "I'm sorry, but… please. Let me stay."

Q's hand was cold, and Bond wrapped his own around it, pulling him closer and shielding Q's body against the night with his own.

"Let me trust you," he whispered against Q's skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My humble thanks to Bluestocking79, Mundungus42, PJ, and Shefa who continue to put up with me.


	4. Chapter 4

The incessant buzzing of his phone awoke him.

Grunting, Bond shifted the comforting weight draped over him and reached for the nightstand. Squinting at the screen, he read the brief text as heart dropped. 

_No. Please, not him. Anyone but Alec._

_Be honest, you've missed him._

_I haven't._

_Liar. You know what this means – you know what you saw last night. You know what's meant to happen now._

_It wasn't supposed to happen. Nobody was supposed to die._

_You're not responsible for the world – you're out to pasture, Alec's doing you the courtesy of reading you in on this. Take it._

"Fuck," he muttered to himself – and immediately ran through a quick prayer of contrition, just in case. 

The comforting weight atop him stirred and he cursed the time spent in London for making him soft, unaware, too easily lulled. Bond had awoken with a bony octopus sprawled atop him. Q's hair was tickling his chest as he burrowed further into his embrace. Q's skin was also warm and soft. 

This was… awkward. 

Q's leg was flung across Bond's hips, resting heavily against Bond's morning erection. Bond grunted and tried to shift the sleeping Q, but to no avail. Q's leg merely wrapped around him more firmly, effectively trapping his erection against his leg. 

Fantastic. 

"Q."

"Mphgh." Q did not move beyond a twitch. 

"Q! Wake up!"

"Comfy," Q muttered. 

Bond raised his head and looked down into the thicket of dark hair that surrounded Q's head. 

"Q, this is the last time. Get. Up. We're late for mass," he lied.

 _That_ got a reaction. Q twitched violently, scraping his thigh against Bond's hip. Bond bit back a groan as Q rolled off of him. 

Immediately, Bond regretted the lack of contact. Q was warm, Q was soft. Now, the cool air of the flat flooded around him as Bond shifted to sit up.

Q was sitting up and yawing, scratching lazily at himself. 

In the watery sunlight trickling through the curtains, Q looked even more waiflike than usual. His thin chest – pale, the trail of hair down his abdomen, disappearing into the sagging waistline of his pyjama bottoms, his wiry arms, tufts of hair beneath them, and thin neck. Bond knew the desire to run his tongue along that thin chest – to taste, to nip, to mark and to soothe that pale skin. He knew the desire to bury his nose beneath Q's arms, to inhale the scent of him, to bury himself inside the boy, to taste, to smell, to _take_.

In the ways that he'd been tempted to take, to know, to claim Vesper. But that had been easy. Vesper, a member of the laity. Vesper, a woman who had lived and loved, who had _children_. Vesper, of this world. 

"James?"

Bond jerked his gaze to Q's face – the smattering of morning stubble across his chin and on his upper lip that made him look even younger: a beardless boy growing into his manhood. It jerked him back to reality as his gaze drifted to Q's fingers and the bloodstains beneath the nails. 

The boy was an innocent: morally, spiritually. He might know the power of the spirits frowned upon (or not directly acknowledged) by their mother Church, and he might know the cruelty of man, but there was no way he could possibly understand the cruelty and violence of a man like Bond. 

Which made it all the more vital for Bond to protect him, to keep him safe from the defilement that coated Bond's very soul. The defilement and pride that had killed Vesper, that had led Bond to witness her slaying: her nearly naked body being dangled in front of him like so much meat.

"James?" Q asked again. "What are we going to do?"

"Get dressed," Bond said. "We're going back to Mrs Grasspoole's." 

"But… mass?"

Bond took a breath. Managed a smirk. 

"I lied," he said.

Q threw his pillow, _Bond's_ pillow at him and shuffled off to shower.

* * *

Alec and his team were back at Mrs Grasspoole's house when Bond and Q returned. Or rather, Bond suspected, he'd never left. 

"James," Alec greeted him. "Enjoying your retirement?"

"Good to see you too, Alec. Mrs Grasspoole was killed in my parish. Of course I'd have an interest in it."

"Yeah, but still… James… after the _last_ time."

"Does nobody in the Church have anything better to do than gossip about my alleged retirement?" James groused. 

"As a matter of fact, yes," Alec replied. "But it's not… not for your eyes, exactly, James."

"Alec." 

Alec sighed, reached out for Bond's shoulder. 

"Look, James, I'm sorry. But it's been, how long? Ten years since you've been in this patch? And Cleveland, James. Working on a hellmouth like that changes you – believe me, I know. Remember Glastonbury? Of course you do. And I know this has to be difficult for you. But…"

"Alec, I'm not incapable," Bond protested. "I can do this. You don't have the authority to…"

"It's not me, mate," Alec interrupted. "It's from up top." He grimaced. "You're officially out of bounds. Strictly off limits. The fact that this happened in your parish is… well, look, I'm just the cleanup crew, all right? It's nothing to do with me. They're putting me out to grass too, you know. Said I'm getting too old, that this is a young man's game."

"They're fools," Bond replied. 

"They've got _technology_ now. "Alec grimaced. "Can you picture it, James? Fighting the forces of Darkness with a computer? But no, they've got all kinds of recognition software – we're not spending weeks in a library now."

"I know, Alec, we had the database in Cleveland," Bond said.

"Yeah, but they're just starting to make us test this new system, somebody's been watching too much bloody American television, if you ask me. It's all pattern recognition and visual scanning and EMF detection devices with digital readouts, 'real time updating'…" Bond could hear the inverted commas. 

"But you volunteered to test it out," he said.

"Of course I did," Alec replied with a wounded expression. "I may be a damned fool, James, but I'm not an idiot. And besides, you should see the new demon snares they're making, they're beautiful."

Bond found a grin. As hidebound as his bishop had been, there had been some fantastic _gadgets_ (for lack of a better term) that they'd allowed him to play with. 

"Better that they have them fail on old farts like us, James," Alec said, sobering quickly. He glanced over at Q who had drifted over to a junior priest, Alec's number two, it appeared, who was aiming a hand-held scanning device at the pattern of scorch marks on the far wall of Mrs Grasspoole's sitting room. "Let the youth make its mistakes on the expendable ones, those of us too corrupted by the Darkness."

"It's an innocent's game," Bond said suddenly, following Alec's gaze. "Seduce them with the promise of glory and Light and drag them into the dark." Q fiddled with the scanner and handed it back to the junior who tried it again and beamed. Bond watched as the two bent their heads to read the display: the junior's light, prematurely white hair and Q's mass of dark. 

"Are you _sure_ he's innocent?" Alec asked. "That demon was looking for someone. Mrs Grass- whatever her name was, wasn't its target. This was a warning."

A cold wave washed through Bond. His suspicions from the night before – Q's curious gran, the collections of herbs in Nancy's home, Q's easy familiarity with Voudon… No.

"I have to be."

Alec patted his shoulder. 

"All right, old man," he said. "Every man needs something to believe in."

"I don't believe in…"

But Alec had risen with an easy grace and walked over to Q and the junior priest. 

Bond stood, watched them talk quietly and then, adjusting his jacket, left. There was nothing for him here.

* * *

Bond said the noon mass that day, for Q had not returned. In fact, it was dark before Q came back to the flat. 

He stood in a pool of light in the doorway to the sitting room – a streak of back clothing against dirty cream walls, and worn beige carpet. His face, pale as always, was marred with a frown. Bond watched as he hesitated, opened his mouth to speak, licked his lips, and then closed it again. His tongue, a dark pink against soft lips, now darkened – he'd been biting them, Bond decided as a hot current of _want_ , of desire flooded through his gut. 

Q's eyes, though…

"I'm sorry, James," he said. 

Bond rose from his chair, cast his book aside and strode across the room to him. He clasped Q's face, cheeks cold against his palms. 

"No," he said. "Don't. Whatever you think you need to apologize for. Don't. Alec was right, this is a young man's job – and God knows, you're young enough. And your… ability – the technology… I'm old, Q, broken. That's why they sent me here. Because I didn't have the grace to die on them. But you…" Q shook him off.

"They want me to help them catch and kill the demon," he said. "They want me to do it tonight. I was able to fix the scanner that Father Orfe was using. Alec and John, Father Orfe, that is, they think that with the fixes I made that we can…"

"Q…" Q's cassock was cold against Bond's hands. 

"They said I had 'great promise'. They gave me an hour to get ready, they don't know I came back here, to you. They thought I went to gran's, to gather up some supplies she has, but I didn't. I can't. Not with Gavin there. They think that I have the strength to help them kill this thing. And, James, I'm _afraid_."

"Q…" Bond traced the line of white at the base of Q's dog collar with his forefinger. Q's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"James, _please_." Q's eyes were big, and in the warm light, the shadows beneath them looked like bruising. "I'm afraid James. Please… Come with me."

Bond drew Q to him and closed his eyes, releasing his breath – resting his forehead against Q's. 

"I'm afraid, James."

Hadn't those also been Vesper's last coherent words to him?

"Okay," Bond heard himself say, as if from a long way off. "It's all right. I'll be there. I'll come with you. We'll do this. Together."

"James…"

Q's lips were soft under Bond's. His mouth was warm as Bond pressed clumsily against it. Q's lips opened, his tongue, warm and wet traced a pattern against Bond's lips until he opened his mouth. 

There are many kinds of kisses that priests experience:

The kiss of an old lady – soft and smelling of baby powder or ancient perfume.

The kiss of a child – sticky, enthusiastic. 

The kiss of a new bride on her wedding day – shy yet daring. 

The kiss of peace – perfunctory. 

The press of lips to the soft nap atop a new baby's head – damp from the baptismal font, the smell of diapers and detergent and spit up. 

But none of these kisses have the heat, the wave of desire, of uncertain certainty, of _love_ that Q's had as Bond held the lad to him for what felt like an eternity. 

When they did break apart, Bond knew his chest was heaving. His mouth hung upon, the taste of Q still on his tongue, his heart aflame. Q looked equally wrecked – his eyes shining, his lips pink and swollen. 

He wanted to drop to his knees before the boy. To submit to every single one of the desires that flooded through him at that moment. 

"Q…"

"James, please," Q said again. "There's a demon, James."

Reality thundered through Bond and he took a step, two, desire twisting in his gut. His shoulder smacked into the bookshelves.

"We can't do this," Bond gasped.

"We did, James," Q said with a small smile. His lips were pink, wet. Bond wanted so much to step forward again.

"We don't…"

"No, _we_ don't. Your vows, remember? Plus, the demon." Q sighed. Bond gripped the underside of the bookshelves. "Were this a movie, I'd suggest we save the snogging for later but…"

"Q, I don't…"

"No, I don't suppose you would." Q stood his ground, hands, Bond noticed, fisted by his side. As his desire faded, Bond felt another flare of suspicion.

_Your vows._

"Give me twenty minutes," Bond said.

* * *

Bond remembered the smell. No matter where in the world he was, he would always know the smell of the sewers. Excrement was the same, no matter what language people spoke, apparently. 

Q looked ready to vomit. Bond felt a vicious surge of satisfaction. _Not all it's cracked up to be, is it? This demon hunting lark._ Of course, to him, the sewers were almost a second home: the stench, the humidity, the skittering of rats – the funk of decay that clung to him like a cloak. 

It was practically _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks go to Bluey, Libby, Maz and PJ who aided and abetted this work. 
> 
> St Helen Crosby is actually the name of a Catholic church in Liverpool. For the sake of convenience (my own), I have chosen to transport it to the site of St John the Baptist in Hackney. I've also taken liberties with parish life in London. Mistakes are my own.
> 
> And of course I've nothing to do with the James Bond franchise except as an eager consumer.


End file.
